


Voice, Angel of Music, Opera Ghost, Man.

by eachuaine



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, F/M, it's okay it's fine canon doesn't matter, sort of a mashup of ALW and Leroux and ideas from my own Sexy Beautiful Brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 18:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eachuaine/pseuds/eachuaine
Summary: After a confusing journey to an underground world of smoke and mirrors, Christine Daaé and her Angel of Music clear the air... (Post AU version of Stranger Than You Dreamt It.)





	Voice, Angel of Music, Opera Ghost, Man.

  Her dressing room had become a garden in the days she’d been gone.

 Flowers that had not yet lost their luster burst from every surface of the room and scented the air with their sweet, dewy fragrance. Bunches of roses in deepest red and petal pink, tall sprays of electric blue delphinium, and delicate pastel clusters of lilac and sweet pea flowers on stems of verdant green sprung from every corner. Someone—Meg, no doubt—had put them all in vases to preserve them, and when she had run out, she’d resorted to pots, porcelain mugs, and at least one stolen stage prop. Christine touched a velvet ribbon that had been taken from a bouquet of tulips and tied neatly around an old chipped glass, smiling in spite of herself.

 Dread, however, weighed her down, and no abundance of flowers or vases could break through it. Being alone in her dressing  room again sent goosebumps pricking across her skin, but there was no point in stalling--she had made up her mind. She sought answers, and she would have them. Christine sat down in her chair, as she had done a thousand times before, folded her cold hands in her lap, and spoke.

 “Angel?”

 Her voice wavered in the candlelight. She felt ridiculous, speaking to midair when she knew he might not even be there. It was a foreign feeling—before she’d never done anything but trust that, as a heavenly body, he would hear her wherever she spoke. But no longer.

 An eternity passed with no response. Her heart sank. She licked her lips nervously and tried again.

 “Monsieur le Fantôme?”

 Another small forever passed—and then she heard it. His voice, low and dulcet, coming from everywhere and nowhere at all.

 “I had not expected you to speak to me again.”

 Her heart soared in spite of her nerves. She inhaled shakily.

 “You have been my companion for almost a year, monsieur. I wouldn’t just throw that aside.”

 “You know not what you say.”

 “But I do,” she insisted, gazing earnestly at the ceiling (for lack of a better place to rest her eyes). “You’re my angel of music, for better or worse.”

 “I am not from heaven, mademoiselle,” he said bitterly. “And your father did not send me.”

 “How can you be sure of that? Heaven works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?” She knotted her hands in her lap to keep them steady.

 “You are shaking,” he observed. Christine took another fortifying breath.

 “I won’t lie to you, monsieur,” she said, “I was frightened. You surprised me.”

 He grew quiet again, and she added, “But I am willing to look past it and move forward. What is a friendship without its mishaps?”

 “A friendship,” he repeated, disbelieving.

 “You are my friend, aren’t you? You’ve listened to my cares and troubles, pushed me when I needed it the most, and taught me at no cost out of the goodness of your heart.”

 “You would be hard pressed to find such a thing in my heart,” he said dryly. “And I have few friends.”

 “Would you deign to consider me one?” she asked.

 Silence. She began to fear he had left, but he spoke again.

 “Would you like me to?” His voice was quiet and reserved, but underneath it she sensed some unknowable emotion, like a brook’s current beneath wintertime frost. She smiled.

 “I would. Very much.” Emboldened, she took a chance. “Will you come out?”

 “I would only frighten you again.”

 “Not now that I am prepared,” she countered. “I’m not some fainting old maid. I want to make your acquaintance properly.”

 He made a noise, something that was not quite a hum and not quite a laugh.

 “If you insist.”

 There came a fluttering of heavy fabric behind her. Christine turned and found nothing but the heavy red velvet curtain and its golden tassel swaying in the candlelight--and when she turned back, there he stood, wreathed in black and as preternaturally still as a statue.

 Voice.

 Angel of music.

 Opera Ghost.

 And now, man. The sudden reality of the fact that he was, in fact, a man, struck her all at once, and it occurred to her that she was seating said man in her room alone, unchaperoned, and in her dressing gown--but then, she had never cared for such high society nonsense. They were people, not unruly children or slavering animals with no sense of propriety, and she’d always found the concept of a woman’s “honor”—and the idea that it could be corrupted by the mere presence of a man—both ridiculous and insulting.

 She was, however, at a loss for words. The moment felt heavy with significance. This was their first true meeting, unskewed by the glamour and confusion of smoke and mirrors. He was living and breathing flesh, rather than a disembodied voice or a shadow in swirling mist and glass. The voice she had admired and adored for so long now had a body and a physical presence, and she didn’t know what to say.

 He trailed a gloved fingertip down the fragile petal of a rose, black on pale pink. Christine watched him survey the flowers that dripped from every surface as he walked around the room. He stopped by the stack of cards and notes on her shelf and picked one up.

 “I never actually congratulated you on your success the other night,” he said thoughtfully. Christine flushed with pride.

 “I owe it to you,” she said warmly.

 “Yes, well, someone had to remind them all that there is more to opera than La Carlotta strutting and squawking about the stage. Now if only the corps de ballet can be prevailed upon to stop meandering like cattle in a field…”

 Christine laughed.

 “So you really are the one that drives the orchestra to drink with your notes.”

 “I demand perfection,” he declared, lifting his chin. “You’d think they’d be more inclined to give it, considering the absurd amount they’re paid to exercise their weak talents. My hand to god, this opera house would collapse without my guidance.”

 “Then you should be glad to know your efforts don’t go unnoticed,” Christine said earnestly. “Each performance is finer than the last.”

 The Opera Ghost faltered. He didn’t quite know what to make of the compliment.

 “I should hope so,” he said distantly. Christine hopped up from her chair and fetched a stack of sheet music from a dresser.

 “Actually, they’ve selected me to play Juliette in  _Roméo et Juliette_ ,” she said excitedly. “All because of  _Faust’s_ success. It’s a little early to be studying the music, but I wanted to know your opinion.”

 The ghost seemed surprised when she held the sheet music out to him.

 “You still want…” He gingerly took the music.

 “We’ve already covered that, haven’t we? I will need to know your rates, of course; I have  taken advantage of your services for far too long--”

 “ _Absolutely_  not,” the Opera Ghost said suddenly. Christine faltered.

 “Monsieur?”

 “I only mean,” he said, voice gentling. “That I refuse your money. Your voice is payment. Your music is payment.”

 “But--”

 He held up a hand.

 “If I am to continue instructing you, that is my only condition,” he said. “No charge.”

 She wanted to protest, but his tone brooked no argument. He meant business. Wordlessly, she nodded.

 Someone rapped smartly on the door. The Opera Ghost turned away.

 “I should be going. I will pass my notes to you soon.”

 “Wait!” She grabbed the edge of his cloak, afraid he might vanish. “You’ll come again, won’t you?”

 He looked over his shoulder and met her gaze. She could see his eyes in the hollows of his mask, strange and luminous, and for a moment she felt pinned.

 “Mademoiselle Daaé,” he said solemnly. “If you asked for me in heaven, I would die so that I might answer your summons.”

 She smiled, suddenly shy. She let the cape slip from her fingers and turned around for courtesy’s sake, and when she turned back, the Opera Ghost was long gone.

 


End file.
